


Intimacy

by AbAbsurdo



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbAbsurdo/pseuds/AbAbsurdo
Summary: Fragments of a relationship through needs, wants and feelings.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 24
Kudos: 106





	1. Human Touch

_Tell me in a world without pity_  
_Do you think what I'm askin's too much?_  
_I just want something to hold on to_  
_And a little of that human touch_

  
Bruce Springsteen, Human Touch

1925

  
Thomas was roused from dozing off to the sound of a bang in the corridor. Worn out by his duties, the constant unsuccessful search for a new position and a never-ending dose of desolation, he dragged himself from under the blanket and went in search of the culprit. Finding no one outside his door, he returned to his humble accommodation, shivering in the late evening. This part of the year, the weather outside was warmer than inside the house. And what a house it was.

  
For years, it had been hard getting back to his austere room in the attic, after spending the day in the Abbey's luxurious parlour or dining room or the library. Thomas was particularly fond of the library. He kept many books in his own room, bought as an extravagant -these days- gift to himself. As the years passed, he made a habit of keeping them under the bed or inside his cupboards, not to hide them, but to keep them precious. Ford Madox Ford's "Some Do Not..." and Forster's "A passage to India" were sitting innocently waiting for him to read them and he was anxious to get to it, even if there was no one to discuss them with. He was used to it. The times he used to read his books with his tutors were long gone. That day was not the day to begin any of them though. These days, Thomas's only issue was the coldness of his room, the ascetic emptiness of the room he lived in but, as Mr. Carson had repeatedly declared all these years, was not really his. 

  
Thomas closed his eyes and signed deeply bringing air to his aching lungs. 

  
He staggered back to his bed, pulling the covers, still warm from him, over his cold body. He wrapped his arms around his pillow and pulled it across his chest, resting his head on the unforgiving mattress desperate for a bit of human contact. 

  
A bit of warmth. 

  
1929

  
A knock on the door startled him in awareness. He rubbed his aching eyes and pushed the covers off his body. He stumbled to find his slippers and then to the door. "Who is it?"

  
"Whom are you waiting for, Mr. Barrow?" The well-known voice drawled with its customary cheek. As a punishment, Thomas took his time to put on his robe and close it tight around his waist. 

  
"Well, aren't you late, Mr. Ellis?" He was met with a raised eyebrow and an impertinent smirk. 

  
'Not all of us can leave on time."

  
"And they talk about the royal punctuality."

  
"No one talks about royal punctuality." He set his valise down next to Thomas’. 

  
"You do."

  
"You look exhausted, Thomas. Do they run you over in Downton?" Richard wanted to know why Thomas looked so worn out.

  
"Nothing more than usual. It's just..." Thomas threaded his fingers through his hair thinking over what to say. He looked up at Richard. "I'm just tired." It was that time of the year. Thomas wanted to bury himself under the blankets and get up only when Spring was over. 

  
Richard pulled off his coat and suit jacket and tie, leaving himself clad only in his white striped shirt. 

  
“The weather’s getting better. It will be getting warmer by the day and you can sit on the sun.” Richard saw the bed was unmade. “Were you sleeping?” 

  
Thomas rubbed his neck awkwardly. “It was cold.” 

“It’s not that cold, Thomas. Are you sure you are alright?” 

  
Richard reached over and touched Thomas’ forehead lightly with this palm. “You are warm.”

  
“I’m not warm. I’m cold.”

  
_I can never warm up._

  
Richard read between the lines. He took a step closer to Thomas and slowly he pulled him into his chest in a loose embrace. “I can warm you up,” he whispered by Thomas’ temple, leaving a kiss there, letting his lips linger on the warm flesh. Thomas trembled and hugged back tightly. 

  
Richard’s warmth permeated Thomas in waves. Slowly as first, having to break through Thomas’ clothes to reach him. Richard stroked Thomas’ back with one hand letting one rest on the small of his back. “Let’s get you off this robe and on the bed.” 

  
He heard a murmur from Thomas. “It’s nice.” 

  
“What is?”

  
“Being here with you close enough to touch. You are warm.”

  
“You are warm too, Thomas.”

  
Thomas' right hand cupped Richard’s head reaching over to kiss the corner of his mouth. The hair tickled Thomas’ hand, and it was combined with heat and just… being alive.

He let himself be pulled to the bed.

  
“All the city filth is going to taint the sheets."

  
“Is all of this a façade to get me off my clothes, Mr. Barrow?”

  
They both knew Thomas could take the bait and let the sudden weakness rest with a night of hot passion. 

  
It would warm him up. 

  
Just not on the way he needed. 

  
“No.”

  
Honestly was always a trait Thomas had to spare. Combined with his usual spite often made people dislike him. And when it mattered, when it mattered to Thomas to be content, he hid. He didn’t lie exactly but hid the truth to make sure the other was content.

  
Richard was not _the other._ He had not been since… well, the start.

  
Richard was a mirror of his younger self; willing to take the first step, to give, to love unquestionably. With the added maturity age had brought to the other man, Thomas envied his unstoppable force of affection even during the hardest of moments. 

  
“What do you want?” Richard had changed his clothes and sat by his side. He took his left hand in his own and rubbed the palm, calming Thomas’ nerves, both physical and mental ones. 

  
Thomas did not reply. Instead, he pulled him by his side, covered them both with the blankets and lied next to him. His left hand found its place in Richard’s while the other snooped beneath his pajama shirt and undershirt to touch the warm skin beneath them. 

  
Richard tugged him closer, wrapping both his arms around him. He let his lips linger on his neck, taking in the clean smell of Thomas’ soap. “I love how clean you always smell.” 

  
The laugh was unexpected and the most pleasant thing he’d heard since the moment he heard Thomas’ voice. Thomas’ hands were getting warmer. “I hate being dirty.”

  
“Don’t I know that, love?”

  
“You don’t smell bad yourself.”

  
“What? No filth from the city?”

  
Thomas pushed him on his back and lied half on top of him, his lips touching Richard’s lightly. “I finished reading the Last Post last weekend.”

  
Richard settled on the bed, with Thomas in his arms, arms and legs entwined, taking in each other’s smell, breathing in harmony. 

  
Thomas was certain happiness resembled warmth.


	2. The Infinite Kiss

As it subjugates you now,   
as it pins you to the ground   
like a tethered animal  
As it drags you by the hips   
and it forces you to this,   
it is hell but in is bliss 

Brett Anderson, The Infinite Kiss

1931

Richard was adamant at letting their worries out of the door when they were spending time together. It rarely happened and, as it was, he had no interest thinking of his royal duties when he could have Thomas in his arms, his breath on his neck and his voice by his ear. Thomas was only happy to oblige. Downton had taken enough of his time.

After four years and twelve week-long meetings, they knew each other well enough, had come into synchronicity and harmony Richard never expected to share with another person. He wondered how they would be in twelve years from this day. He shook his head at his own sentimentality and ran his fingers through Thomas' unmade hair. He had washed his hair as soon as he had entered the room. Richard had been waiting for him for at least a quarter of an hour before he heard the knock on the door. He had been ready to question his punctuality, but the sight he met at the door was honestly pathetic and he refrained from making it worst. 

_"It started raining." Thomas gave as an explanation, as he took off his coat giving it to Richard to do with it as he pleased. "And I was holding my hat as I got off the station and lost it."_

_"Poor darling."_

_"Shut up."_

_Richard leaned to kiss the pout off the red lips. With it he tasted the rain that glued to Thomas' face and lips. He couldn't begrudge it. He kind of envied it._

_"Why are you smiling?"_

_Because I find myself jealous of the water clinging to your lips, he thought. "You look like a wet kitten," he teased instead. "Go wash yourself. Warm up."_

_"I don't know why I come to see you when you're being like this," he murmured, lack of usual bite in the words making itself known more than the words themselves._

_"Because you love me," Richard said lightly just before the door was closed right behind Thomas' back._

_He might or he might not have heard a soft "yes, I do" from behind the door._

And now, a couple of hours later, he had his one hand on Thomas' hair playing with the clean strands, not a hint of pomade in his hair. Thomas' head was lying on his chest, his left hand clutched on Richard's other hand, book settled against his raised knees. Richard would interrupt his reading to complain, but Thomas was reading aloud. His voice was washing over Richard's senses, as he spoke the man beneath him felt the vibrations, Thomas being warm and alive under his hands. 

"“Why can't we be friends now?" said the other, holding him affectionately. "It's what I want. It's what you want." But the horses didn't want it — they swerved apart: the earth didn't want it, sending up rocks through which riders must pass single file; the temple, the tank, the jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Guest House, that came into view as they emerged from the gap and saw Mau beneath: they didn't want it, they said in their hundred voices "No, not yet," and the sky said "No, not there.” 

Richard took the book from Thomas' hand and placed it face down next to Thomas. "Can we be friends, now?" 

"Are you daft?" Thomas turned his body to look better at him and Richard leaned to touch their noses, letting his forehead rest against Thomas', breathing his breath in. 

"I missed you." It was whispered softly, as if Richard wasn't certain whether he wanted Thomas to hear it or not.

Instinctively, Thomas moved closer to him, covering Richard's sudden weakness by wrapping his right arm around him, his left one still held by Richard’s, nuzzling the sensitive skin under Richard’s ear.

“I don’t know how I survived with you all these years.’ It didn’t matter who said it because it was truth for both of them. Thomas smiled and felt Richard shudder beneath him and gasped when Richard took off his glove and brought his ruined palm closer to his face. “You have beautiful hands, long fingers. Hard work hasn’t turn it rough to the touch.” He brought the palm to his lips, letting his lips caress the scarred flesh. 

He brought Thomas’ hand to chest and let it rest there, on top of his beating heart. “Have you ever thought to marry to a girl?” 

Thomas blinked and sat up straighter on the bed, next to Richard who was holding his hand like a lifesaver. “I wasn’t that much of a bastard, even when I was one, Richard. Why bring another soul to my wretched existence?” 

“Your existence isn’t wrenched.”

“Not now. But I was always reconciled with who I am. Everyone else wasn’t so I had, still have, to hide it, can’t have the life I want, couldn’t love and couldn’t find a man to love me without bring hurt. But, bring a girl into it? Why should I?”

“For certainty.”

“I never thought it like that.” Thomas turned his icy stare on Richard. “Did you?”

“As a cover? No.” Thomas took a deep breath of relief and squeezed Richard’s hand, letting the fandom pain of his palm wash over him. Richard moved their hands in front of his face, his pointer drawing lines on the back of Thomas’ hand and his thumb massaging the palm. “But, I was ready to marry a girl back, before the war.” 

“What?” Reflexively, Thomas tried to remove his hand from Richard’s, but he held it tight in his. 

“It’s not what you think.” Richard cajoled, turning to look at him for the first time since he started this conversation. “Listen, we were working together. We were eighteen. She had an affair and she got… in the family way.” 

“It wasn’t yours?”

“Christ, Thomas. No. The man she was seeing left her and I found her one-night crying in the servants’ hall. I told her I’d marry her when she finished her story.”

“And she didn’t question it?”

“That moment, no. I was her saviour.” 

“You tend to be.” 

“Right.”

“What happened?” Thomas wasn’t certain he wanted to know. He wasn’t certain why Richard decided to bring it up now. 

“There were complications in her pregnancy. Both she and the child died before we were to get marry. It was twenty years ago today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All day, I kept wondering how my life would have been had they survived.” He brought Thomas’ hand to his mouth again. “What would I have done with you? Would we be here like this?”

No, they wouldn’t be if he was married. Such notions of silliness got trampled by Phillip around the same time Richard’s wife and child to be died. 

“You are a decent man, Richard. I sometimes don’t know what you do with me,” Thomas said, as he remembered being young and stupid, guilt over a marriage that never took place gnawed his insides. 

What if it had? What if Phillip had married Lady Mary? How much worse would Thomas have become? How much worse would Thomas’ life have become? He wouldn't have been here with Richard, that's for sure. He shuddered at the thought of being used by Phillip, permitting him to use him for an implied future that had been lost from the start.

Richard turned over and covered Thomas with his body. His lips lingered on Thomas’ temple, draw a line to his cheek, he let his nose bump playfully against Thomas and then lips found lips, mouths moved against each other. Thomas’ tasted of the milky tea he had earlier, his smell of the soap he always carried with him. Richard felt the hard, muscled body beneath his, strong enough to support him, the warm, soft skin of his face beneath his palm, and Thomas' hands at the back of his head, large thumb caressing the nape of his neck. “Anything you want, love. You are my family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I appreciate one pov per chapter, this isn't the story for such a thing.


	3. Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not English, but I hope the dancing in Remembrance Day isn't offensive. It's a way to remind themselves they got out of it alive.

_It's not safe to be near those eyes  
Are enough  
To take this heart of mine  
And when you stop and stare long  
Well I could run if there wasn't a chance  
You take this heart of mine  
Hey little boy  
Do you want the same thing as me_

(You Take) This Heart Of Mine, Tindersticks

1928

Richard couldn’t grasp it. He was in the Servants’ Hall of Downton Abbey for the fourth time in a year and not a single person was batting an eyelid. He had chosen to spend Remembrance Day –Saturday as well- and his accidental days off his duties in Yorkshire and instead of being with his family he was leaning against the wall among people he had met the previous year.

And no one seemed to care.

The place smelt of freshly baked bread and something else, sweeter, cinnamon and citrus, sugar and cloves and so much like home. The faces he had come to know well were pensive in remembrance of the fallen ones. Some of them could even remember the horrors, the death, the smell of blood, sweat, excrement, devastation, surrender to the fear, giving up, losing hope.

He had been told about Mrs. Patmore’s nephew, he could see Mr. Bates remembering another war while Anna’s hand rubbed his thigh. His stomach clenched, jealousy raised its ugly head as his gaze went to the person responsible for his being in Downton.

Thomas had just come back from serving the dinner, Andy in his tow, when he collapsed on his chair by the fire. Richard could see Thomas breathing deeply, exhaling slowly, his fists wound tight on his thighs. Richard craved to sit next to him, take his hand and rub the tightness away, kiss the inside of the palm, exorcise the scar that marred the perfection of Thomas’ skin.

And he couldn’t do it.

Thomas would call him daft if he knew about his thoughts. He glanced up to find familiar grey eyes studying him. They were seven metres apart, in a different life, Richard would cross it in two steps and bury his head in the juncture between neck and head, taking in Thomas’ clean scent.

In a different life.

Now, he could only watch Thomas eyes watching him fondly, certainly thinking the same utopic notion.

People talked around him, sharing the stories and fears from the war, wondered how much they had changed in the last decade, some even tried to question him about his experiences but Richard attention is on Thomas and the tender smile he has turned towards the fire.

How could they not tell?

“Let’s dance!”

Where did that come from? Everything seemed gloomy and dark only moments ago, and now Daisy had her arms wrapped around Andy’s tall frame and got him to swirl her around in a tune Richard only just registered. “Do you remember, Thomas?”

“I try not to.”

Richard knew that was far from the truth, and he shared a smile with Thomas.

Daisy had told him about her first marriage, but Thomas never elaborated in it.

“I wouldn’t call it a wedding,” Thomas has said. “Just another sacrifice among the many. Unregretful, though, as time has passed.”

Thomas was often like that, vague as if remembering hurt him in ways Richard couldn’t grasp.

Daisy and Andy made a beautiful couple as they dances, Anna leaned on Mr. Bates shoulder, hands clasped together, Mrs. Hughes talked to Mr. Carson lowly in a corner, and Richard wanted that.

All of that.

How hadn’t he got used to it by now?

Getting asked to dance used to be fun. Being asked to dance by Mr. Bates on his wife’s behalf seemed odd but understandable. A quick locked gaze with an amused Thomas confirmed Richard’s assumption he’s done that before. And while he accepted the suggestion –how could he refuse? - the body in his arms was too small, too curvy, the head too blond.

It was not the first time he had to dance with a woman, and it would not be the last either, but Thomas was sitting right next to him, they were breathing the same air, they were sharing glances and smiles, but they couldn’t touch each other, Richard could not clasp his hand and pull him for a dance. He looked around and Mrs. Hughes had her arms around Mr. Carson as well, despite the man’s uneasiness.

_“Good Lord, man, enjoy what is freely given to you”_ , Richard wanted to shout at his face. Instead he kept dancing with Anna until she excused herself with a jovial thank you and ran to curl up next to Mr. Bates and their son.

Richard glanced at Thomas, only to find he wasn’t sitting by the fireplace any longer.

“He went out for a walk,” Ms. Baxter informed him. Her eyes lit up when she looked at his left to Mr. Moseley coming down the stairs.

“Thank you, Ms. Baxter.”

Thomas’ walks consisted of leaning against the wall and smoking cigarettes and if Richard was the artistic type he’d make a fortune out of drawing him. Just like that. As it was, he could only watch.

“It’s raining.”

Thomas didn’t startle as if he knew he was there, as if he was waiting for him. He let the smoke slowly from his mouth. It created a foggy atmosphere around him for a few seconds before it dissipated under the shower.

“Ms. Baxter told me where you are.”

“She would.”

Richard leaned on the wall right next to him, stealing the cigarette from his fingers to puff on it. It thrilled him that it had just been between Thomas’ lips. Such an easy thing to excite him.

Thomas was watching him.

“It doesn’t stop to surprise me that most of the people in there know. And we can still not…”

Thomas had turned to him. “Be together,” he asked as he pressed his body against his, taking the cigarette from him. This was new. Thomas had always been careful, suspicious of his surroundings, afraid to get caught. And shy. He threw it on the wet ground and used his gloved hand to palm Richard’s cheek.

“At least you are here, and I’m not being called foul. I call it an improvement.”

Richard slipped his arms around Thomas’ waist, hugged him tightly and checked on the door. “We shouldn’t be here. Anyone can come out.”

“Nevertheless, here we are.”

Forehead touching forehead.

Arms tightly wrapped around each other.

And then heads resting on shoulders, taking each other’s scent in.

“I could feel your eyes on me all evening,” Thomas cold nose nuzzled his neck.

“I could see you smiling.”

“You could, couldn’t you?”

“I wanted to dance with you.”

“Let’s pretend you did, you had your arms around my waist and we moved in a slow tune. Together. Imagine. Until we do it.”

“I don’t want to hide. I want them to see.”

Thomas’ eyes widened in surprise. He brought his left hand to Richard’s suit lapel and smoothed it down. “It, it doesn’t matter to me if they see or not.”

And Richard knew that, knew that all too well.

“What matters to me is that we dance.”

Richard couldn’t fault him. He leaned a bit and kissed Thomas’ soft lips. They tasted smoke and cinnamon, bitter and sweet. And that was all it mattered that moment.


	4. Power

_But I believe in Love_   
_And I know that you do too_   
_And I believe in some kind of path_   
_That we can walk down, me and you_   
_So keep your candles burning_

Into my Arms, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

1912

Thomas rubbed the tears from his eyes furiously.

How dare he? Did he actually believe he’d stay to play servant to him after being treated like dirt? His heart was aching from loss and anger.

He cried alone, in the darkness of the corridor promising to himself he wouldn’t be hurt again.

1917

Thomas slid down the wall, letting the tears fall down easily. No one was there to see him. The war took everything from everyone. Senses, determination, self-worth, life. The suicide of one man, a man Thomas could have saved if was listened to, incorporated every emotion of loss that had cut him deeply to his core.

1927 

A bubble of excitement rose from his stomach to this throat, when Thomas wrapped his arms around Chris' shoulders dancing unafraid of who might see, of who might judge, Chris hand low on his back. The stares he shared with other man, the plain happiness of being understood, not only accepted but being part of a community, of a whole, instead of the one looking in from the outside was an intoxicating feeling.

It all came crashing down when police raided the warehouse, he and everyone else -except for the few lucky ones to make a successful escape- arrested as if they had stolen or killed or harmed someone else.

Their enjoyment, Thomas' happiness was an insult to polite society. It was a crime punishable with arrest and trial and embarrassment and shame. This was what Thomas knew all his life, and the moment he forgot, society was there to remind him with the ruining of his life.

_"You're foul."_

_"You should be horsewhipped."_

_"Get out of this house, boy, unless you want to be taken out..."_ his father had said. And his father didn't even know, because he kicked Thomas out of the only home he had, not even Thomas knew what was wrong with him.

Wrong.

He didn't ask to be wrong. He didn't want to be wrong. If he was wrong, then God or Nature was wrong.

As he was shoved in the carriage, at least he was given the decency of wearing his jacket and coat, jumbled thoughts attacked him mind. The clenching in his stomach had made him nauseous, the pure, unadulterated fear of what to expect, of what he lost for one moment of acceptance, his job, his future, his life.

Oh Gods, prison.

His squeezed his left hand, used his fingernails to pinch the scarred flesh over the glove. He would have taken it off, induce more physical pain to take off the thoughts of what was to come.

Among and between all of the horror, the boundless belief he had harmed no one.

He was the one wronged, facing unjust persecution.

* * *

Richard had been stealing glances towards Mr. Barrow from the moment they started their trip back to Downton. Despite his attempts to cajole and calm him, Mr. Barrow kept on running his fingers on the hat he was holding tight in his hands, eyes staring blandly in front of him.

He was pale, paler than usual.

And silent.

He had followed Richard timidly in the car and hadn't uttered a word. Richard had no clue what to do or what to say to offer some assistance to the other man's shaken emotions.

"Stop the car."

He stepped on the breaks and Mr. Barrow was out of the car in seconds, leaning over the ground, retching. Richard hesitated to follow him, torn between offering his help and letting him deal alone. Mr. Barrow was a proud man who wouldn't take well being cajoled by a stranger , that much Richard had understood. If he knew him better, maybe.

Or maybe he was dead wrong, and Mr. Barrow's pride was in war with his need for friendship. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and decided to do what he thought better for himself.

With that in mind, he stepped behind the other man who was still heaving and coughing by the road. He set his hand on his back, rubbing lightly.

Mr. Barrow raised his arm to the back. “Don’t! Give me a moment.”

Richard removed his hand and took a step back, looking carefully at the other man. He remained silent as Barrow spitted and cleaned his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the tone of voice ashamed. “This is all the humiliation I can take for one night.” He straightened his body and looked straight ahead in the dark woods. “You oughtn’t to have to deal with this.”

“Mr. Barrow, you are not a burden.”

A harsh laugh cut through the calm of the night. “No one cares enough to even be a burden, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard felt anger bubbling inside him. Anger at everyone who made a person feel unloved, at a society that harmed its children for doing nothing more than being. Bile came up as he remembered what he had to say to get Barrow outside the police station unscathed. Seeing the man now he wondered if the night hadn't left its mark on him. Undoubtly, it had.

And Richard tried again to reach out and touch the man’s back, rest a hand on the taut shoulder, calm the tremble.

Could he dare say that he cared? That very morning he wasn’t sure if he wanted anything more than a tumble with the enigmatic, beautiful man who ran Downton Abbey. But that was hours and an eternity ago. The man’s much scarred soul was calling out to him. And by God, he should stop reading cheap romances.

What to say to both calm and not frighten?

The truth.

“I’ve been where you are Mr. Barrow, and it’s a lonely and scary place.” Barrow turned to look at him, glassy grey eyes contained unshed tears. “I was arrested once myself. I had someone to save me. I’m passing it forward.” The tears fell and Richard, very carefully, very slowly, reached out to catch them with his fingertips. With his gloves inside the pocket of his coat, it was bare skin that touched the pale cheekbones.

“I was lucky, wasn’t I? That you were here. And willing to help me, get me out of there.”

“You were there because of me, Mr. Barrow.” Richard wasn’t certain he could reason with him in the state he was, but he wouldn’t stop trying.

“You didn’t make me go with Chris.”

And wasn’t that a stab of jealousy rearing its ugly head? He so wanted to ask why he did go with him. The grey eyes was locked on his though and he couldn’t ask, he almost found it difficult to breathe just as Barrow’s harsh breathing was the only sound, the only movement between the two of them.

“Will you be alright, Mr. Barrow?”

“In the end, I usually am.”

Richard’s hand slithered to his shoulder and clasped it warmly. “Let’s take you home.”

“I’d like to have a smoke before we go.”

And Richard stood there, a couple of steps away from Barrow, looking at him smoking. “It’s Thomas, you know. My name. I thought you should know.”

“It’s Richard. And… I don’t know. I like the sound of Barrow.” He liked the way his tongue curled around the consonants. “Thomas.” It suited him. He couldn’t imagine him being a Tom or a John.

They had settled back in the car when Thomas reached over and touched his elbow.

“Thank you.” It was the gloved hand and Richard took advantage to settle his own on top of it and grasp it lightly. “You beat them today. I only wish we could have saved everyone.”

Thomas smiled, and Richard wanted to kiss him right there, under the moonlight, in the open space, where no one could see. He’d wait a little while longer, because if he ever got the kiss back it shouldn’t be because of gratitude.


	5. The Blessing of His Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of tense, from past to present.

_And love is where you find it_   
_And love is where you reach_   
_And love is in the patterns_

Pretty Widows, Brett Anderson

Then

He has forgotten. He’s forgotten how it feels to be loved. Has he ever felt it before? Like this? Nude skin against nude skin, eyes open and sincere, balance between them? Kiss on the hollow of his throat? Words of affection by his ear? Probably not.  
Definitely not.  
Phillip demanded and Thomas wanted to give but didn’t get back.  
Oni-sided love is not balanced to lust.  
No, he has not forgotten. He has never had this before.

Richard is half draped over him, his chest full of emotions, pressed down by Richard’s weight.  
There’s a strange feeling bubbling inside him. Richard leaves a kiss on Thomas chest, sits up and puts his weight on his elbow. He’s staring at him and Thomas stares back, his lips widen in a big smile. Richard leans over and kisses the smile, even as Thomas returns the kiss wholeheartedly, it doesn’t go away,. He feels it becoming bigger, intensifying.

“A penny for your thoughts. Your smile is infectious, love.”

“Love?” He raises an eyebrow. “The last time someone used a pet name for me was my grandmother. She died when I was five.”

Richard’s head returns on his shoulder, his palm on his chest, above his heart. “Love, sweetheart, baby boy…”

Thomas makes a face and murmurs his disagreement to baby boy against Richard’s hair. Richard settles on his side, his right arm on Thomas’ waist, pulling him closer, close enough to not be a space between their bodies. “But you like the others,” it’s not a question, more of a statement, enjoying the blushing much more than he should. “sweetheart, love.”

Thomas’ left arm finds its way on Richard’s midriff. “Yes.”  
He’s comfortable, Thomas decides.

The feeling that wants to burst from his heart is happiness.

Now

Outside the wind rages, inside the fire crackles.  
Richard moves around the cottage, sets wood by the fireplace, steals glances at Thomas, who’s been sitting on the sofa, glasses askew, book turned down on his chest, rising and falling by the strength of breathing.

His temples have turned all silver and white is peppered all over his head.  
He’s still as beautiful as the first time he’s laid eyes on him so many years ago. Light wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles, the grey-blue of his eyes as clear as always as the words tumble of his mouth, more acerbic than ever now that he doesn’t have to censor his thoughts.

Richard turns his gaze to the fire, orange tongues eating the wood in slow, certain moves. His mind travels in the past, the ups and downs of his life, before and after Thomas. Here they live now, in their own home, free of other engagements, free to be together, if not legally bound, bound together in every other sense of the word.

He stifles a pained gasp but manages to sit down on the floor by Thomas’ side. He will have to wake Thomas up to help him get up. But it’s worthy, sitting there, next to his love, seeing him sleeping, softly breathing. He twists his hand beneath Thomas’. He knows it bothers him, the old would does. He never says anything, doesn’t complain, but Richard has seen him shaking it out at odd times of the day.

He turns the hand around and kisses the palm, resting his head against it gently. Thomas’ right hand rises, touches his head, and threads his fingers through Richard’s receding hair. He turns to gaze the sleepy, grey eyes staring at him. “Dinner’s ready, sleepyhead.”

Rain beats the windows as the warmth inside their home gets gentler. Thomas pulls his head to him, mouths finding each other in a slow, unhurried kiss. “Not hungry.”

“Don’t care, you’ll eat with me, won’t you, love?”  
“Anything for you.”

Richard knows it’s true, Thomas would do anything for him. “Help me get up.” Thomas smiles, softening the winter’s cold, and Richard just can’t help it. He touches his lips with his fingers before he replaces them with his mouth and Thomas ends it with a peck.

Thomas pushes his body down the sofa and sets his socked feet on the floor by Richard. He stands up easily, fluidly, graceful as he always did and reaches out with both hands to help Richard up. “Why did you sit down, you silly noob?”

Standing up, Richard takes him in his arms, wrapping them around Thomas’ waist and pulling him to his chest, keeping him close, clinging to him. “Watching you sleep is my favourite pastime.”

Thirty-five years after the first time Richard saw Thomas looking down to hide an embarrassed blush, he feels Thomas’ forehead on his shoulder hiding his pleasure and a few moments later, a soft kiss on his neck. “Your shirt is rumpled. You never got the hang of pressing your shirts.”

Richard sways them to a tune only he hears, one palm on Thomas’ waist, another on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Dance with me.”

“There’s no music.” Thomas mirrors the place of his own hands to Richard’s body and lets him lead him as Richard hums the music in his mind.

“We have a radio,” Thomas whispers, afraid to break the moment.

“We don’t need it.” He wraps his arms tighter around Thomas’ body, thinner than he used to be, frailer, and buries his nose in Thomas’ soft hair, as rich as it used to be when he met him.

Thomas recognizes the song Richard hums and accompanies him, cheek on Richard’s shoulder, breathing against his ear.

“That’s a nice way of waking up,” he says when they stop.

“Are you still tired, love?”

“We can eat and go to bed.”

That’s a yes.

Richard pushes Thomas’ hair of his forehead, pale face looking back at him.

_Don’t leave me_ , he wants to say. _Don’t leave m_ e. He can’t and he just looks at the beloved face, as beautiful as the day he first him.

“I’m not going anywhere any time soon,” Thomas understands him and his panic of losing him, can see deep inside his soul, and soothe the fear.

He can’t promise anything.

But if he could,  
He would. 

**Author's Note:**

> There was a post I've read about how important intimacy and non sexual touch (or even sexual) important is for humans. And I thought a series of short stories about intimacy and Thomas who has to be missing it in spades.


End file.
